OK, here's the deal for a short film parody, modeled on Santilli's "Alien Autopsy" fakeout:

Film Title: "They Built Him That Way" (dedicated to w.m. bear)

Fade In:

A chimpy Bush character, moaning and tootling little yodels of dazed bemusement, is in an operating theatre, lying (!) semi-consciously on the surgical table, tubes and wires running every which way, in and out of the Bush baboid, while stentorious doctoral entities in sterile white skull caps and medical gowns, carrying odd, Cronenborgian instrumentation hover around the patient. Certain probing motions, and coordinated stimuli via light shifting fiber optic puppeteer like strings are being manipulated by the small crowd of anonymous doctors, faces unseen, as the brain (a walnut) is carefully extracted.

Shift to close-up:

As the brain-nut is removed, a beatific, Alfred E. Neuman-esque silly bitty grin slowly expands on the Bushite facial meat mask. Then, a Pam Anderson-sized silicone breast implant sack, coated with fresh Iraqi light crude oil poured from a can is slid into his brainpan. Dipstick is inserted, removed, examined, and wiped. Skull is quickly closed, with either a chrome zipper or ziplock plastic slider, and the patient slowly begins to situp and bafflegab at the doctors who are now standing back, surrounding the Bushido, and quietly they begin to laugh, slap high-fives, and move in some bizarrely coordinated, trance-like dance movement as Bush continues to become more aware of his surroundings.

Pull back:

"It's alive! It's Alive!!" shouts the main doctor in celebratory revelry, and then breaking in giggles of madness.

Slowly, the doctor pulls down his face mask. It's Dick Cheney, with a big shit-eating grin on his face, followed by a reptilian slide and slurp of his greyish blue toungue over his sharpened teeth, and as the camera slowly pans back and around to the face of the other doctors, each of whom pulls down his face mask now that the operation is apparently over, we see first Rumsfeld, Gonzales, Rice, Fieth, momma Barbara, Miers, papa Bush, Laura B., and other central players in the administration each begin to hoot, grinning sardonically, while a chorus of chanting, cult-like, of "four more years! four more years!" fills the room as a grand orchestral arrangement by Nelson Riddle and Run DMC of the national anthem rises up audibly from the background, as Laura, his mate, takes the walnut, cracks it open between her knees, and begins to extract and chew on the walnut meat, in a langorous, happily dazed ritualistic manner, and passing a chunk to moms Barbara, who graciously wolfs it down, and screams for "MORE!"

"Frankly, there's nothing worse (aside from death, global famine, nuclear disaster and all-round armageddon) than seeing players in the UFO field fawning all over their peers at conferences as they seek acceptance into the ufological sand-pit by saying the 'right thing' to the 'right people.' Thankfully, there's none of that in Mac's world."